50 shades darker

Chapter 12

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades darker or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 12

"Did you talk to him today?" I ask Harry as we wait for Mr. Robinson's arrival.

"Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I said that you didn't want to see him, and that I understood your reasons why. I also told him that I didn't appreciate him going behind my back." His gaze is impassive, giving nothing away.

Oh, good. "What did he say?"

"He brushed it off in a way that only Nick can." His mouth flattens to a crooked line.

"Why do you think he's here?"

"I have no idea." Harry shrugs.

Taylor enters the great room again. "Mr. Grimshaw," he announces.

And here he is . . . Why is he so damned attractive? He's dressed entirely in black: tight jeans, a shirt that emphasizes his perfect figure, and a halo of bright, glossy hair.

Harry pulls me close. "Nick," he says, his tone puzzled.

He gapes at me in shock, frozen to the spot. He blinks before finding his soft voice.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had company, Harry. It's Monday," he says as if this explains why he's here.

"Boyfriend," he says by way of explanation and tilts his head to one side and smirks.

He smiles, a slow, beaming smile directed entirely at him. It's unnerving.

"Of course. Hello, Louis. I didn't know you'd be here. I know you don't want to talk to me. I accept that."

"Do you?" I assert quietly, gazing at him and taking all of us by surprise. With a slight frown, he moves farther into the room.

"Yes, I get the message. I'm not here to see you. Like I said, Harry rarely has company during the week." He pauses. "I have a problem, and I need to talk to Harry about it."

"Oh?" Harry straightens up. "Do you want a drink?"

"Yes, please," he murmurs gratefully.

Harry fetches a glass while Nick and I stand awkwardly gazing at each other. He fidgets with a large silver ring on his middle finger, while I don't know where to look.

Finally, He gives me a small tight smile and approaches the kitchen island and sits on the bar stool at the end. He obviously knows the place well and feels comfortable moving around here.

Do I stay? Do I go? Oh, this is so difficult. My subconscious scowls at the man with his most hostile harpy face.

There's so much I want to say to this man, and none of it complimentary. But he's Harry's friend—his only friend—and for all my loathing of this man, I am innately polite. Deciding to stay, I sit as gracefully as I can manage on the stool Harry's vacated.

Harry pours wine into each of our glasses and sits between us at the breakfast bar. Can't he feel how weird this is?

"What's up?" he asks her.

Nick looks nervously at me, and Harry reaches over and clasps my hand.

"Louis's with me now," he says to his silent query and squeezes my hand. I flush, and my subconscious beams at him, harpy face forgotten.

Nick's face softens as if he's pleased for him. Really pleased for him. Oh, I don't understand this man at all, and I'm uncomfortable and edgy in his presence.